


it's a scandal that'll pack 'em in the aisles

by jelenedra



Category: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (TV)
Genre: (in the old timey way), Canon Compliant, Communication, Cunnilingus, Epistolary, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gratuitous Judaism, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, OTP: I’ve created a monster, Post-Season/Series 03, Sexting, Spoilers for Season 3, Yiddish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelenedra/pseuds/jelenedra
Summary: "With a letter like that, an outside observer might think you were coming onto me."After the events of season three, Lenny sends a postcard.
Relationships: Lenny Bruce (The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel)/Miriam "Midge" Maisel
Comments: 74
Kudos: 531
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookyshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyshai/gifts).



> big ups to spookyshai for having this whole thing written at them in discord and yet still beta reading for me afterwards, you're the real MVP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The private correspondences of Mr Lenny Bruce and Mrs Miriam Maisel, May-September 1960.

[Written in blue Biro on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard has "Welcome to FLORIDA!!!" written in bright orange cursive over a picture of palm trees. Postmarked 1 May 1960.]

Upper West Side—

Heard your European tour fell through. Am far too busy & important & mired in self-pity to sympathize but thought you should know your the only comedian who has ever offended anyone. Nobody else in history of this cancerous verkackte profession has ever lost a gig - nevermind a tour - or entry into multiple American cities for that matter - over things said on stage.

More nonsympathy to follow.

—Lenny

*

[Written in elegant cursive with a black fountain pen on B. Altman letterhead, sent in an envelope sealed with a pastel pink rose sticker. The letter and envelope smell faintly of Intimate by Revlon. Postmarked 17 May 1960.]

Dear Mr Bruce,

First of all, I am deeply disappointed by your missive. You've been arrested for obscenity how many times? And yet the worst language I see in there is verkackte, as if your average American censor even knows what that means. Where's the scandal, Lenny?

I don't know why anyone thinks housewives are gossips; they've got nothing on comics. Which Floridian yenta started spreading that around? Yes, my European debut fell through. Well, it wouldn't technically be my European debut - I did an impromptu set when my mother fled to Paris (long story) at this tiny club where men dress up as women. It turns out men make prettier women than I do, which seems unfair. There happened to be a New Yorker in the audience who got up and translated for me. "So when my husband cheated on me - or, as you call it in France, Thursday..." Not my best work, but it was off the cuff.

As if that wasn't enough, my ex-fiance and I had things out in front of the entire Stage Deli lunch crowd. Frankly, given my recent terrible choices, he should be thanking me for getting out before any deposits were paid. Given the size of the bullet he dodged, his parents must be thanking G-d he's a doctor. Apparently my mother's been trying to find him someone and he thought I put her up to it, which is ridiculous. If I was involved, I'd find him a nice shiksa.

I feel like there has to be a joke in there - dodging a bullet, Jewish mothers going on safari to bag a doctor, something along those lines. I'll put it in the notebook.

Any words of wisdom for when you torpedo your own life? I figure if anyone has advice it's a former Navy man. All that time out on the ocean, with no one but the torpedos and their handlers for company...

I hope this is still your address. It'll be real awkward if someone else is living in number thirteen-or-maybe-three these days.

Fond regards,  
The Miserable Mrs Maisel

*

[Written in smudged black ink on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard says "WELCOME to the LAND of SUNSHINE" in red block letters over a map of Florida. Postmarked 31 May 1960.]

Miserable—

A lifelong New Yorker but your first time in a drag club was in Paris? This cannot stand. Get to Club 82 on East 4th, pretend you never even heard of Paris & find a nice girl to dance with.

If it helps any remember its only a few months til Yom Kippur. Blank slates all round! Tragically does not absolve me of my parole violations so there may be a hurried relocation in my future - perhaps its time to reconsider Germany.

My torpedo handling skills were once the stuff of infamy but recently am more acquainted with bombshells & occasionally the dropping thereof. Speaking of do you take your scandals black or blue?

—Lenny

*

[Written in elegant cursive with a black fountain pen on outdated Columbia letterhead, sent in an envelope sealed with a green palm leaf sticker. The letter and envelope small faintly of Eau de Joy by Jean Patou. Postmarked 19 June 1960.]

Dear Lenny,

I took your advice and went to Club 82. It was an absolute gas! My feet still hurt from dancing, my ears are still ringing from the music, and my pride still hasn't recovered from every single drag queen in the place having better tits than me. How did you find the place? Just so you know, if it turns out you look better in a dress than I do, I will be forced to retaliate by stealing your look. I know I could make it work; black is my color, after all. I hope you don't mind me wearing your clothes. My closet is extensive, but it doesn't quite stretch to a suit and tie.

That sneaky Yom Kippur, creeping up on me again! I don't know if I told you this, but last Yom Kippur I told my family about my comedy career right before break-fast. In retrospect, that was a mistake; Jews can't take big revelations on an empty stomach. It was still an improvement on the Yom Kippur of '58, in which I got dumped, drunk, and arrested. If you're a gambling man, I'm now taking bets as to what new heights of drama will be achieved this time around.

You know, now that I think of it, there was this other comedian in the squad car next to me back on that fateful Day of Atonement. I might even have bailed him out of jail the next day. I wonder what he's up to lately? He was one lucky guy; he got a pretty good view of my tits in that nightgown. If he wasn’t so cute I might’ve been offended.

In answer to your question: black might be my colour, but I'd like my scandal blue. And bring your A-game - I've got midnight bookings at Café Wha? and I need some new material. Chop-chop, Bruce.

Best,  
Midge

* 

[Written in black Biro in legible print on a piece of notebook paper, torn in half, sent in an envelope sealed with Scotch tape. Postmarked 30 July 1960.]

Mrs Maisel, 

With a letter like that, an outside observer might think you were coming onto me. I'd like some clarification on that point, actually. If your just looking to score some fresh material I'll be sure to enclose an invoice next time I write. Remember though, I've got lawyers to pay, so it won't be a small one. 

—Lenny

* 

[Written on paper torn from a pad, with the impression of previous letters written on pages above and vigorously crossed out pressed into it, sent in an envelope sealed with a plain pink circle sticker. The letter and envelope smell faintly of White Shoulders by Evyan. Postmarked 20 August 1960.]

Dear Lenny,

I owe you an apology.

I didn't ever intend to be unkind to you, but I was careless and impulsive, and I've been sending one hell of a mixed message, in light of what happened the last time we saw each other. I am going to try to explain, in hope that I can somehow put us back on the same page. 

I've spent two years thinking of you as Lenny Bruce, the great comedian, the man who embodies the things I want to be: brave, creative, funny, obscene. I've been looking at you with stars in my eyes since before you knew I existed. And then one night you took me out, and suddenly my dear friend Lenny was this handsome, chain-smoking Prince Charming, filling every room he was in with magic and electricity. 

I never wanted that night to end, but then we got to your door. I was standing there, glowing just from being in your presence, and you offered me everything I wanted, and I panicked. I realised that if I walked through that door and later it turned out to mean nothing, it might actually break me. Nothing else has managed so far, but if anything could, it would be you. 

Whenever I'm with you, I can always retreat to banter. Tide comes in, tide goes out; setup, punchline. It's predictable. It's safe. When you wrote to me, I was so desperate for something predictable that I let myself believe I could get away with banter. It wasn't honest. It wasn't kind. But it felt like the fastest way to make things easy between us. I want so much for things to be easy right now that I don't always care if they're honest or kind. But that can't come at your expense. 

I'm sorry, Lenny. You deserve better. 

With painful sincerity,  
Miriam

* 

[Written in a casual scrawl in blue Biro on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard says "Just arrived in New York: The Wonder City!" in grey text over a photo of the city skyline. Postmarked 25 September 1960.] 

Midge—

I'm in town. Got a gig at the Blue Angel on Friday. See you there?

Yours,  
Lenny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the best thing about this fandom is i can be yiddishkeit on main completely unabashedly (although i am not from the US or the '60s so i had to do a little extra crosschecking on some elements of vocab, lmk if i've slipped an australianism in anywhere)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erev Yom Kippur, 1960.

The Blue Angel is a far better class of nightclub than Midge ever performed in before the tour with Shy, and it’s also the kind of place where Lenny will definitely get arrested if he puts his mind to it. Midge makes sure she has plenty of cash for bail money, just in case. That’s the easy part of her preparations. 

She spends her entire lunch break in an anxious daze, clinging onto Mary and Vivienne’s hands and talking herself into and out of half a dozen outfits. 

“I can’t wear the red dress - he’s seen it before. He’s bailed me out of jail while I was wearing that dress! Oh, god, he’s seen me in the green, too, and he’s seen me in every black dress I own. He hasn’t seen the Dior but it’s too close to the dress I wore in Florida and I don’t know if I want to remind him of that - or maybe I do? It was a good date, except for the part where I left him at the door and didn’t speak to him for months oh _god_ I’m a terrible person.” Midge puts her head down on her knees. 

Then it’s back out to the Revlon counter where she surreptitiously swatches every lipstick sample against her own forearm, yanking her sleeve down and smudging them hopelessly whenever she heard anything that sounded like the clop of Mrs O’Toole’s court shoes. It was not an efficient way of finding the colour she wanted, but thankfully the office girl afternoon rush kept her too busy to make even more of a mess of herself, and then it’s time to slip her aching feet back into her heels and rush home to scrub off the day. 

She has enough time for everything she needs to do - change, remake her face, kiss the kids goodbye when Joel picks them up - but not enough time for everything she wants to do. She’d peel off her skin if she could, scrub herself down to muscle and sinew and build herself back up layer by layer to ensure perfection. It’s the kind of jitters she had on her wedding day, but then she had time and a team of people around her who knew their only purpose was to bend to her whims. Now she just has herself and sensation of something at a rolling boil in her chest. 

Eventually, she gives in and goes to the expert. 

“Mama?” 

“Yes, Miriam?” Rose appears, as if by magic. More likely she’s been waiting for the right moment to launch an interrogation; best to cut that off at the knees. 

“I’m not going to give you the details, because I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Midge says. “But I need your advice.” 

It’s like the moment between the setup and the punchline, when Midge looks out over the audience and knows she has them square in the palm of her hand. Rose’s gaze sharpens. 

”Oh?” 

”Yes.” Midge stands and gestures to her closet; dozens of gowns picked out for Europe, mostly unworn. “Which dress says, ‘I’m sorry I walked out on you’?”

*

It takes a good half hour of spirited debate, but eventually they settle on on an evening dress from a Parisian designer, a waterfall of silk crepe and chiffon. The color evokes the nightgown Midge was wearing during her first arrest, not that Rose needs to know that. As far as Rose knows, it’s just a gorgeous dress; more importantly, it makes Midge feel like a princess.

“It’s really more of an evening gown,” Rose sighs, arranging the delicate chiffon veil around Midge’s shoulders, “but it’s late enough to be allowable, especially in that color.” Midge reaches for a coat, and Rose slaps her hand away. “Don’t you dare. If you’re cold, your gentleman is going to give you _his_ coat.”

“What if he’s cold too, Mama?” 

Rose gives the chiffon one last toss and steps back. “Then one of you will freeze.” 

When Rose leaves, Midge rolls her eyes and gets a coat anyway. She and Joel were still smarting over who was going to host break-fast; no sense in sparking off a new debate by letting him see the dress. 

It’s all going so well - kids out the door exactly on time, Rose in the kitchen, Abe with his paper, neither looking up as she makes her exit - that she forgets to be nervous until she’s already at the venue. Then she has to check her coat, and someone she doesn’t know eyes her dress, and she remembers the story she wants to sell. 

There’s an empty table, thank god, and there’s a gin martini in her hand within a few minutes. Just as she’s contemplating a second drink, someone gets up and starts to announce Lenny. 

She looks to the side of the stage and sees him waiting in the wings, barely visible in his black suit against black curtains. His hand covers the lower half of his face, and his shoulders are slumped, but when they say his name he straightens his posture, settles his tie, and strides out. 

“Hello, hello. All right,” he opens, laughing. “I am by nature pretty nervous,” and then he’s off to the races, spinning out a story about phone operators that has the room in stitches almost before he tells the actual joke. He names one of the phone operators in his hypothetical story _Midge._ It’s not a large room, but she knows from experience the way the stage lights are set up will blur the audience together into an ocean of silhouettes; even so, when her name sits in his mouth she swears she can feel his eyes on her. 

From there he steps sideways into a bit about his tattoo keeping him from being buried in a Jewish cemetery, weaves it into a story about being told what he couldn’t say on the Steve Allen show, digresses into a dissection of the nature of profanity. Midge lets herself get swept along in a way she usually resists; instead of trying to analyse his timing, she just finds herself laughing along. When he finally bids the audience goodnight, she can barely believe any time has passed. 

She’s on her feet as soon as the applause dies away into the low murmur of dinner conversation, pulled towards side of stage like a fish on a line. 

Lenny meets her halfway, hands in his pockets, shoulders up, eyes down. He uses his elbow to gesture towards the edge of the bar, a quiet spot a little away from the main buzz of people buying drinks; Midge goes without hesitation. They sit together, watching each other, not touching.

Lenny clears his throat. “Is this the part where I ask you what you thought of my set?” 

“I would have thought it’s the part where you tell me how great I look,” Midge says.

Lenny just looks at her, eyes half-closed but his gaze no less intense for that. He’s slouched in a way that would seem insouciant if he wasn’t leaning slightly towards her, like he’s feeling the same magnetic pull that she is. 

Midge looks away first, and orders them drinks. They appear quickly; she hands Lenny an old fashioned and their fingers graze as he accepts it and electricity tingles down her arm. She watches him take a sip, fixated on the action of his throat as he swallows. She blindly grips the stem of her martini glass, letting the cold ground her. 

Lenny sets his drink down on the bar and leans in, slow enough that she could pull back if she wanted to. She doesn’t want to; she stays still as his hand, cool and slightly damp from the glass, slides onto her knee. It’s the barest touch, barely a scandal at all - the layers of her dress and her stockings are between them, and no one can see, sheltered as she is between the bar and Lenny’s body - and it goes through her like a knife.

“You are stunning,” Lenny says. 

Midge drinks her whole martini in one hit. Sets the glass down. Leans in close. “Your act was sensational.”

Lenny shivers as her breath hits his skin, and pulls back just enough to take his drink and finish it. He stands up, straightens his tie, and offers her his hand with a flourish. “Shall we?” 

“We shall.” Midge takes his hand, lets him reel her in.

* 

They don’t go far; there’s a coffee shop halfway down the block, quiet at this time of night, where they can sit and talk without interruption. Even only travelling a few blocks, Lenny drapes his overcoat around her shoulders. He keeps a hand on the small of her back; perfectly innocent and proprietary to any onlooker, but to Midge it burns like a brand. It’s both a torment and a relief when they step inside and she passes his coat back to him. He pulls out a chair for her, then goes to buy cigarettes from a vending machine. A waitress appears, pours two cups of coffee, and disappears again in silence.

Midge resists the urge to produce a compact and check her face, to fuss with her hair or the chiffon draping down her back. It’s not an easy thing. She slides her gloves off, taking her time, enjoying the movement of silk over her skin, and by the time she has them folded just so Lenny is back. He offers her a cigarette and she accepts immediately, eager to have something to hold, to gesture with, to give herself a pause between question and answer if she needs one. Lenny offers her a light and she leans in, closing her eyes for the first inhale. 

Lenny lights his own cigarette, breathes out a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You got my postcard.” 

“I did.” Midge crosses her legs, crosses her arms, uncrosses her arms, leans back in the chair, sits up straight. Lenny watches her, smiling behind the cover of his hand. Midge gives up with a huff, slumps in the chair, and smokes sulkily. 

“Figured we should probably talk.” Lenny makes a sweeping gesture with his cigarette, taking in the whole picture of her. “I can see it’s going well already.”

“It’s not - you didn’t say anything unreasonable,” Midge says, sitting up hastily and setting her hands on the table. “I was the one who made things awkward.”

“Yes, you were.” Lenny taps his cigarette into the ashtray. “It’s okay. You’re Jewish, you can’t help it.” 

Midge cracks a smile despite herself, and takes a sip of coffee to quash it. Her stomach flutters.

“So here’s the deal,” Lenny says. “You know where I am.”

Midge flinches, just a little, but there’s nowhere for her to go; Lenny’s gaze has her pinned like a butterfly to a card. “Yes.” 

Lenny exhales smoke, toys with the handle of his coffee cup. “You made a decision. It was a decision that I respected, and that I did not have a problem with, despite any personal feelings of disappointment I may have had.” He’s not looking at her, not giving her any expression at all; she might as well stare at a brick wall. He puts the cigarette to his lips, inhales, rests it on the ashtray. “Now, I’m still hanging out in Miami, and I hear word about a friend in a rough spot, and I send her a postcard. She writes back, and of course I’m delighted to hear from her, despite her unfortunate circumstances. And I keep writing back to her, and everything’s fine… until.” He pauses and looks at her, and Midge finds herself holding her breath, even though she knows what happened.

Lenny’s too damn good at the hook. 

“You set a boundary, Midge.” Lenny points his cigarette at her, eyes impenetrable. “And then you went and tried to cross it. I’m not here for you dancing back and forth over that line, dig? I don’t want a toe here, a hand there, then back you go. You _know—_ ” He stumbles, closes his mouth. Leans back. There’s a moment where she gets caught in his gaze, in the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, before he speaks again. “Tell me where you are.” 

Midge opens her mouth, gets as far as, “It’s not—” before she cuts herself off. 

There are too many options. She could go on the defensive; she could make a joke and pop the tension like a balloon, or worse, inflate it even more; she could redraw the boundary, stronger this time, and never step over it again. 

Lenny is still watching her, his face schooled into careful neutrality except for his unbroken stare. He puts his cigarette out without breaking eye contact. She has to close her eyes, breathe for a moment, centre herself before she can speak.

Midge opens her eyes, but they stay fixed on her coffee cup. She clenches her hands in her lap, pressing her lips together, heedless of her lipstick. Slowly, carefully, she says, “I don’t want to be dancing over the line either.” 

In her peripheral vision, he relaxes just slightly, his rigid shoulders falling back toward their familiar casual slump. Feeling a little encouraged, she goes on.

“To me, you are,” she says, very slowly, “and have always been, something beyond other people. I remember sitting in this disgusting little strip club with Joel, laughing at your jokes. You lit up the room, and it wasn’t because you were funny. Not to say you weren’t funny - you were _really_ funny.” Her gaze wanders over to him, looking for something, anything, that might tell her what he’s thinking. The look in his eyes feels like a punch straight to the heart. _God,_ who told him he was allowed to look at her like that? She has to swallow before she can go on. 

“You’re brilliant, Lenny. It’s like you have this – this warmth, this light, that just radiates from you like you’re - I don’t know, a bonfire. The fucking sun.” It’s somehow both an exaggeration and not extreme enough; the words are falling out without her say-so now. “And, listen, I know how I am. I’m not going to put on any false modesty here. I’m very smart, and I’m very funny. But I also am just - kind of a huge fuck-up.” She can feel tears building in the back of her throat, forces them down with a drag on her cigarette. “I try not to be, I really do, and I’m great a lot of the time - maybe even most of the time - and I don’t want to make this all about boo hoo, poor me, because it isn’t, but all I’m trying to say is that - that you could not be another one of my failures.” She takes a breath, steels herself. “I drew that line because I was afraid of there being nothing on the other side, not because I didn’t want there to be. I didn’t want to think about it, but - I wanted to be over there with you.”

She can’t look up. If she looks up, she’ll be lost. Her cigarette is nothing but ash, the ember burning the tips of her fingers; she stubs it out, noticing the faint tremor in her hands almost as an afterthought. Lenny says nothing. Midge closes her eyes and prays for some kind of interruption - a drunk, a car crash, an atom bomb. Anything that might punctuate this awful tenderness.

There’s a soft scraping noise that makes her open her eyes. Lenny nudges his packet of cigarettes forward until they bump her knuckles. She fumbles one out with trembling fingers and, by some minor miracle, gets it to her lips. There’s a soft click as he offers up his lighter, and she leans in, focusing on the flame and the curl of smoke into her throat. 

She leans back, looks up at his face to thank him, and thinks, _oh_. 

Her answer is there, written in the faint curve of his mouth, almost entirely concealed by the hand on his jaw; in the way his eyes have softened, just slightly, at the corners. The tension bleeds out of her, iron bands of anxiety unwrapping from around her ribs and throat. 

“I want you over here too,” he says, and she is convicted and forgiven in one stroke.

*

They step back out into the night. 

Midge looks at the people around them with a sense of something like wonder; ordinary people, laughing and talking, on their way to a show or a club or a party or their homes. None of them pay her and Lenny any mind at all. It feels impossible that none of them felt the way the world shifted in the space of a conversation. 

Lenny drapes his coat around her shoulders and offers her his arm. She takes it, smiling up at him, and her heart flutters when he smiles back. 

By silent mutual agreement they walk together, arm in arm, down 57th. The nightlife buzzing around them barely registers; Midge has narrowed her world to the weight of Lenny’s coat, his arm in hers, the careful way he matches his stride to hers. 

They pause at the intersection of 57th and 7th, outside Carnegie Hall, taking shelter from the crowds under an awning. Lenny lights her another cigarette. Midge leans into his side, watching the smoke coil and vanish into the evening air. 

“Do you have to go back to Florida?” 

Lenny sighs out a lungful of smoke. “Yeah. I got some gigs, you know. Bookers generally like it when you turn up.” 

“Oh, really? That explains what I’m doing wrong.” 

“Yeah, took me a while to pick up on that one.” Lenny’s hand comes up to brush the back of her neck, combing gently through her curls. “But I’ll be back in New York in February, so.” 

“Really?” Midge tilts her head back, leaning into his touch. “Coming back to plant trees in Central Park?” 

“God, no. No, I have a gig, actually.” Lenny jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Carnegie Hall, looming behind them. Midge looks at the doors, uncomprehending, then back at Lenny, then back at the doors as a slow grin spreads over her face. 

“How the hell did you keep that quiet?” She steps back, just long enough to knock her knuckles against his bicep. “You’re playing Carnegie Hall?!” 

“Two whole months before Bob Hope does,” Lenny says. “Signed all the paperwork today.” 

“And here I thought you came all the way up here for the Blue Angel.” Midge clicks her tongue and steps back into his side. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lenny wraps an arm around her, keeping her grounded. “I came all the way up here for a decent bagel.” 

“And you told me every Jew must live in Florida,” Midge says, mock-reproving. “How can a Jew live without bagels?” 

“Self-inflicted suffering is part of our cultural heritage.” Lenny flicks ash into the street and turns his face towards her, just barely brushing the top of her head. Midge doesn’t volley back, just tilts her head closer to him. His lips very carefully press against her crown.

Midge closes her eyes, content. 

“I suppose you have to head home soon,” Lenny murmurs, his mouth still pressed against her hair. “Rest up for the big day.”

“I wish you were wrong.” Midge turns in towards him, tilting her face up. “We’re having a quiet family break-fast this year. You could always tag along.” 

“As much as I’d love to set the cat among those particular pigeons, I actually have plans.” Lenny’s arms close around her in turn, sliding under his coat to circle her waist. “In the absence of paying work, I’ll be visiting my own family. Gotta stock up on fresh material for the new year.” 

Midge finds herself wanting to fidget again, and settles for drinking in Lenny’s face; the faint lines in his forehead, the hollows under his eyes, the faint beginnings of stubble along his jaw. Closing the distance is the easiest thing she’s ever done.

Joel kissed her like he was staking a claim, and Benjamin kissed her like she was a glass ornament. Lenny kisses her like he’s telling her a secret, imparting something precious with every brush of their lips. Midge almost laughs for sheer joy. Lenny pulls back, eyes dancing. 

“Something funny, Maisel?”

“No. I’m just happy.” She cups his cheek, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone. 

Lenny pulls her in close and sets his chin on top of her head with a sigh. “I should let you go, before you turn into a pumpkin.” 

Midge muffles herself against his collar, but she’s sure he can still hear when she says, “I don’t want to walk away from you again.” 

“You’ll be driven away.” Lenny chucks her under the chin. “Totally different situation.” 

“Oh, of course, how silly of me.” Midge presses her lip chastely to his throat. “Better get me a cab, then.” 

They untangle reluctantly, until only their hands are touching, and then Midge can’t bring herself to let go. They walk together to the curb, standing too close, shoulders bumping. Lenny flags down a taxi. 

Midge squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back as a cab pulls up in front of them. Lenny steps forward and opens the door for her. Midge takes off his coat and hands it to him as she slides into her seat; as soon as he closes the door, she leans out the window and lays a hand on his chin. 

“Call me tomorrow.” 

“I will.” 

Lenny steps back, raising an arm in farewell. Midge lets herself fall back into her seat, gives her address, and turns to watch Lenny. He stays on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching her until the cab turns onto 8th and he vanishes from her view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional big ups to beta reader and all-around superstar spookyshai for holding my hand and virtually co-writing the Big Emotional Dialogue in the third quarter of the chapter; without them it'd just be lenny and midge making jokes and never actually admitting their feelings and then where would we be? please be effusive in your praise of them!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further correspondences of Ms Miriam Weissman and Mr Lenny Bruce, October 1960-January 1961.

[Written in black fountain pen in elegant cursive inside a greeting card, sent in an envelope sealed with a red apple sticker. The front of the greeting card shows a greyscale photo of an apple tree imposed over grey text reading "שנה טובה". The card and envelope are scented faintly with Diorissimo by Dior. Postmarked 3 October 1960.]

Dear Lenny,

I know what you're going to say. Yes, we have Yom Kippur greeting cards. Yes, being a Jewish-American Princess is contagious. I'm afraid there's no hope for you. 

I'm writing this before you've even left New York, which is... well, pretty pathetic, but I'm sure I can convince you to overlook that. And now I can't think of a thing to write. Shit. 

I've enjoyed our correspondence. I look forward to receiving more monumentally ugly postcards. I might even be able to send a few of my own; Susie set me up with some shows out of state. If Jersey doesn't have tragic postcards, I don't know where will. 

Let's see. For context, it's now been almost 24 hours since I saw you at the Blue Angel. My household is currently in chaos. I have never said this before in my entire life, but I would rather be in Queens right now. 

I keep thinking about last night. 

Tzom kal - well, it'll be at least Sukkot and probably much later by the time you read this, so maybe I'd better just say chag sameach and hope for the best.

Fond regards,  
Miriam. 

* 

[Written in a scrawl of blue Biro on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard reads "Hello from the SUNSHINE state!" in yellow text over a picture of a beach. Postmarked 17 October 1960.]

Patient Zero–

No mention of shmini atzeret? Shanda! Princess Syndrome has progressed. I'm vacationing in the borscht belt and being cornered by bubbes in the deli and having serious opinions about dry cleaners. This is on you Maisel!

Doing a couple gigs - Fort Myers, Port Charlotte, Sarasota. If I never see another confederate flag it'll be too soon. Don't they know they lost the war? 

Thinking of you.

–Lenny

PS - Too soon for blue letters? 

* 

[Written in black fountain pen in cramped cursive on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard says "Greetings from ATLANTIC CITY! Miss You, Wish you were here..." over an orange and green geometric pattern; images of the Atlantic City skyline are inside the letters. The postcard smells faintly of Nonchalance by Mäurer & Wirtz. Postmarked 31 October 1960.]

Dear Princess,

Don't worry; it's not terminal until you choose two indistinguishable synagogues and proclaim "this one I daven at; that one I don't go near". Being so far away from decent bagels should slow the progression. By the way - it's officially Weissman again, at least when I'm offstage. Thank G-d we had a different judge this time. It was enough of a horror show without His Honor Justice Why-Are-You-Even-Divorcing commentating. Now all I have to worry about is trick or treating. 

It's never too soon for blue letters, although if you were in New York we could cut out the middleman and pass blue notes instead. 

Affectionately,  
Ms Weissman 

* 

[Written in blue Biro in gradually deteriorating print on hotel stationary, sent in a hotel envelope sealed with painter's tape. Postmarked 14 November 1960.]

Dear Miss Weissman,

Mazel tov on the divorce - hope it was a relief. I’m a little disappointed, being arrested for adultery would've been a nice change of pace but I'll live without it. 

Using real stationary was a mistake. All this blank page is giving me flashbacks to writing other peoples jokes. Maybe it's this thing I'm trying where I'm sober during the day - overrated by the way - turns out too much coffee means you end up with the shakes anyway so might as well drink instead.

Seeing you at the Blue Angel was a hell of a lesson in restraint. If you had pushed back at all I don't think we would have got any talking done. I'm glad it turned out this way but I do wonder how else it might have gone if I’d kissed you or if you’d kissed me outside the stage door.

Just seeing you there was all I'd wanted in a while - seemed presumptuous to want anything more - and when you took my hand and we stepped outside I was so grateful I could have gone to my knees right there to thank G-d. And if I'd done that your beautiful thighs would've been right there for me to get my hands on.

Are you the type to mind a public place? Something tells me your not - maybe the hundred or so people walking past would do it for you - would you try to keep yourself quiet while I opened you up and got my mouth on you? I dream about what you might taste like, what you might look like. Is your cunt is as pretty as the rest of you?

–Lenny 

* 

[Written in elegant cursive on B. Altman letterhead, sent in an envelope sealed with a pink heart-shaped sticker. The letter and envelope smell faintly of Euphorie by Maggy Rouff. Postmarked 28 November 1960.]

Dear Lenny,

I very much enjoyed your last letter. I hope to enjoy several more of them in future, since you aren't considerate enough to be here in person to help me with my current state of distraction. I've been absolutely useless at work today, thinking about what you said and how I might reply.

I definitely thought about it. There was a moment, when we'd just stepped out the door. You saw me shiver when the breeze hit and went to put your coat around me. You were so close, and I wanted so badly for you to be closer. It passed, as moments tend to, but if it hadn’t… well, I’m reliably advised that my cunt is very pretty, although I'm not in a position to comment as to the taste. You'll have to let me know. 

You should be getting this in mid-December, which means I'll be in Vegas - apparently Mort Sahl has to cut his run short and the manager remembered me from the tour. I've got two weeks on the main stage to make some quick cash before the holiday season makes everyone meshuggah. Room 313 at the Phoenician. You should call me - it might be the only chance we have to talk without being overheard by anyone but the operator. 

Warmly,   
Miriam

*

[Written in a barely legible scrawl of black Biro on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard reads "Florida's Finest Attractions!" in a script meant to look like plants of wood, over a picture of Postmarked 14 December 1960.]

Miriam–

Holy shit. Who knew Bryn Mawr girls could talk like that? I'm pretty sure you made the operator come. It's been a day and I still feel like I'm seeing stars. Talk about a festival of lights. Is that what I've got waiting for me in New York? Carnegie Hall should be easy to reschedule - let's move the date up to January. The weathers lousy but I'd walk naked through a blizzard if you were at the end of it. 

You owe me a new pair of trousers. 

–Lenny

*

[Written in black fountain pen in elegant cursive inside a greeting card, sent in an envelope sealed with a green firework sticker. The front of the greeting card is white with a border of pink flowers, and reads "Happy New Year 1961!" The card and envelope are scented faintly with Charme by Galimard. Postmarked 2 January 1961.]

Dear Lenny,

What can I say? I'm an educated woman with an excellent vocabulary and a lot of pent-up tension. And I really like to talk. I like it when you talk, too. Hey - are the calls where the operators listened in technically ménage à trois? 

As for your trousers, I don't think I can be held responsible for anything that happened to them while I wasn't even in the room, especially if you had the same complaint after any of the other times we spoke. How about a compromise: buy yourself some new trousers, and I'll make sure to only wear clothes I'm happy to ruin when I see you. 

I can't believe it's only a month until you play Carnegie Hall. I can't believe that by the time you get this, you'll be two weeks out from playing Carnegie Hall. I'm so proud and happy for you (and so jealous I could plotz, but I'll graciously overlook that.)

Happy New Year. My resolution is to destroy more of your trousers. 

Yours,  
Midge 

*

[Written in blue Biro on the back of a postcard. The front of the postcard reads "Souvenir Folder from JACKSONVILLE, Florida!" in orange text over a photograph of a bridge. Postmarked 16 January 1961.]

Sweetheart–

The comic who performed after Moms Mabley at the Apollo is jealous of little old me? Best thing I ever heard. 

Don't think I didn't notice how you deny responsibility & threaten a repeat in the same letter. I'm onto you, Weissman. 

Gig out of town then Philly & New York - could be the last postcard for a bit. Better leave it on a high note. How about I take you out on a date? I hear there's a comedian doing a midnight show at some old music hall on 57th & 7th. Friday 3rd. See you there.

Yours,  
Lenny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> timezone shenaningans means my usual beta wasn't available, so let me know if I hecked up!
> 
> this fic was originally supposed to end here but then I started writing Carnegie Hall porn (what a phrase) and so now there will be a fourth, final chapter


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 4, 1961.

_"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It gives me a great deal of pleasure to welcome you to this performance of Lenny Bruce at Carnegie Hall._ _The one thing I'd like to say about the label of "sick comedian", which I think is a misnomer - what Lenny does, perhaps, as a short explanation to the people who don't understand what he does - it is not that Lenny Bruce, per se, is a sick comedian, but that Lenny Bruce comments, reflects, holds up the mirror so to speak, to the sick elements in our society that should be reflected upon and that should be spoken about._

_"And so at this time, ladies and gentlemen:[Lenny Bruce](https://youtu.be/38vwSy_ka2g?t=53)."_

_ * _

After the show, Midge goes backstage.

There aren't as many people as she anticipates, and only one person tries to stop her, but as soon as he gets a good look at her face he calls her "Mrs Weissman" and waves her on. She finds her way to a dressing room with Lenny's name on the door and stops, closing her eyes, resting her forehead against the door for a moment. Deep breath.

She opens the door and leans through. Lenny is sprawled in an armchair, head tilted back, eyes closed. He's a little paler than usual, sweating from almost two hours under unforgiving stage lights, and his hands are shaking; she can tell from the way the ice in drink rattles against the glass.

"Hey," Midge says.

Lenny opens his eyes and turns his face towards her with a slow smile. "You made it."

"I did."

"Wasn't sure you would." Lenny is hoarse, all his sharp edges blurring away in the face of exhaustion. "It's coming down out there."

"I wouldn't miss this for anything." Midge comes into the room and closes the door behind her. "The city banned driving, so I walked three miles. Ruined my shoes. Probably ruined my dress, too." The ruination is still hidden under her coat; even indoors, it had been too cold for anyone to worry about undressing. Three thousand people all packed in together to see Lenny Bruce perform had been the only thing that could make the hall comfortable.

Lenny lifts his drink and knocks it back. He grimaces when he's done and sets it aside. "Why do all your letters smell different?"

The question is so far from anything she'd anticipated that Midge just stares at him for a moment. "What?"

"Your letters." Lenny sweeps a hand towards his dressing table. Midge crosses the room to look. "Different perfume every time. What is it, a code?"

Resting between a bottle of Scotch and a packet of cigarettes are her letters, held together with a rubber band. Midge brushes her fingers over them, smiling.

"The perfume is a code, yes. If you ever smell Chanel No 5, assume I'm under duress and call the feds." She turns to face Lenny, leaning back against the table. "It's definitely not because I keep stealing samples from work."

Lenny hums, sets down his empty glass, and stands up. Midge watches him walk towards her; her heart picks up speed as he draws closer. When he stops in front of her, she can't stop herself from reaching up, catching him by the back of the neck and drawing him down.

Lenny leans into the kiss, his hands coming up to her wrists, sliding to her elbows, pausing halfway to her shoulders. Midge can't feel it through her heavy winter coat, but her skin remembers the catch and drag of his calluses, remembers the warmth that radiates out of him, and she finds herself pressing closer. Lenny smells of whisky and coffee and sweat and pomade, and the ever-present trace of cigarette smoke

She breaks the kiss only so she can get her feet under her and pull him into a hug. Lenny shudders at the contact, and then wraps his arms around her and squeezes hard. Midge rests her head on his shoulder and stays there, until Lenny's shaking has reduced to the occasional tremor, and his grip on her eases into him stroking her back.

"It was one hell of a show, Bruce."

"Shit." Lenny's forehead makes contact with her shoulder. "Thank god it's over."

Midge kisses his cheek, chaste and tender. "Let's get out of here." 

* 

They don't get far.

Midge does admirably well keeping herself on task. Most of the crowd has slowly trickled out into the frozen streets, but there are still people who flock to Lenny, asking for his autograph. Lenny manages to put on the charm, smile and sign and thread through them all, and just as Midge is wondering if they'll ever escape they're out the side door, in the narrow space between buildings. As soon as they're outside - as soon as they're all alone, together -

Midge shivers. Lenny moves to offer her his coat and Midge closes the distance between them, crowding against his chest. Lenny moves as though that gentle pressure is a blow, slumping back into the closed stage door. Midge tangles her gloved fingers in his hair and reels him in.

Lenny goes pliant under her mouth, all the tension in him unwinding at once. His hands go to her waist, almost chastely; his spine curves towards her. Miriam licks across the seam of his mouth until he opens to her, then bites at his lip; his groan hits her like a punch in the gut.

One of Lenny's thighs slides forward, and Midge growls, frustrated as her dress and coat tangles around her legs. Lenny laughs against her mouth and she bites him again, a little harder, pleased at the noise he makes.

Lenny breaks away and says, gratifyingly breathless, "This isn't - Midge, I have a hotel  _ right there _ ."

Midge hums, and undoes his tie. "But I have you here."

"It's fucking  _ freezing _ ." Lenny's grip on her waist firms and he shifts her back a little. "Miriam, sweetheart, please—"

"Fine, fine." Midge allows him to step back, but keeps her grip on the tie; it slithers out from under his collar, and she drapes it over her shoulder. "Lead the way."

To his credit, Lenny moves fast. The hotel actually is across the street; they run across 57th, hand in hand, and Lenny leads her into a hotel lobby. Midge is breathless, frigid air burning her throat as she gasps, and when they finally make it into the elevator she starts laughing, a giggle that bubbles out of her uncontrollably until it infects Lenny too. They lean into each other, laughing like fools as the poor elevator operator stares steadfastly straight ahead, and then the doors open and they stumble out, weaving like drunks down the hallway. They pause for a moment as Lenny looks for his room, and for one moment he catches her with those pitch-dark eyes, and Midge can't keep herself from kissing him again.

They untangle long enough to get to Lenny's room, for him to fumble the door open and for Midge to step through. Lenny follows, closes the door, and stops there. Midge stares at his back, the hunch of his shoulders, and then throws his tie at the back of his head. 

"Lock it." 

Lenny swallows with an audible click and locks the door. 

Midge waits until he's looking at her again to peel off her gloves, slow and smooth, like a burlesque striptease. Lenny crowds forward, pressing into her space without touching; Midge laughs and lets him steer, until her back hits a wall. Lenny goes to one knee in front of her and Midge's breath catches in her throat.

Lenny reaches for the lowest button on her coat, unfastens it with unexpected delicacy. He moves slowly up the column of buttons, his whole attention focused on each one in turn. Midge tilts her head back, exposing her neck as he rises back to his feet, hands lingering as they slide along her collarbone, pushing her coat back over her shoulders. Midge moves just enough to let it fall to the floor. 

Lenny's gaze sweeps over her, and Midge is abruptly conscious of every flaw in her appearance; her hair is a mess from the wind, the hem of her dress is soaked from her trek through the snow, and she doubts the events of the last half hour have done her makeup any favors. She shifts, intending to do something, or say something, though she's not sure what. 

"You are," Lenny says, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

The look he gives her makes slow curl of desire in her belly explode into a wildfire. She lifts her chin, straightens her shoulders, and says, "I think you should take me to bed now." 

Lenny’s mouth curls slowly into a grin and he gives her a lazy salute. "Yes ma'am." 

The bed isn't far, and shows no sign of potential bedbug infestation; Midge takes Lenny's hand and leads him there, keeping her eyes on his. The only light comes from the city outside the window, and even that fades as the snow begins to fall again, thick and fast. Midge turns away for a moment to turn on the bedside lamp, and when she turns around Lenny has gone to his knees again.

He lifts her left foot and slides it free from her shoe before he does anything else, a touch so thoughtful it knocks the wind out of her. The right shoe comes off next, and then Lenny is leaning forward, sliding his hands up her legs, ankles-calves-knees-thighs, lifting her dress along with them.

"I could take that off," Midge says, then gasps when Lenny presses a hot wet kiss to her inner thigh.

"If you want," Lenny mumbles, stroking her thighs. His fingernails drag over her stockings, catching at the delicate fabric and drawing lines of electricity across her skin. "I don't mind."

"Well - maybe I'll wait to see where this is going," Midge says.

Lenny’s hands flex on her thighs - she hears her stockings tear - and then he leans forward, mouth dragging over the crease between her leg and hip. Midge gasps and closes her eyes. The first brush of his lips over her underwear makes her shudder, her knees going weak.

"Lenny..."

He hums in response, nuzzling against her, but doesn't push further, fingers rubbing back and forth over her hips in a way that would be soothing if his every touch wasn't sending sparks through her nerves.

"Fuck," Midge says helplessly, rocking her hips forward. "Lenny,  _ please _ ."

Lenny moves her underwear aside and closes his mouth over her clit.

Midge anticipates anxiety or self-consciousness; it doesn't come. Lenny is on his knees before her, and every movement of his tongue is nothing short of veneration. He worships her with his mouth. Only two people had ever eaten her pussy before, and neither of them had done it with reverence. In the end, it's that, more than anything physical, that has her gasping; she grinds down against his face, grips his hair and pulls him in closer, and the way he groans against her makes her wetter still. She hooks one of her thighs over his shoulders, digs her heel into his back to egg him on, and he groans at that too.

"Lenny—" Midge inhales shakily, her grip on his hair tightening. "Lenny, Lenny, fuck, I want - put your fingers in me, I need it, fuck, make me come—"

Lenny obeys, pushing two fingers into her without hesitation, like he'd just been waiting for the go-ahead. He strokes her, tentatively at first, but Midge digs her heel into his ribs and he moves faster, harder, until sensation is blazing through her, racing up her spine like a lit fuse. Midge squirms, her gasping breaths rising to harsh cries, and then Lenny twists his fingers inside her and she comes apart.

She slumps forward, gripping his hair with both hands, panting. Lenny slowly pulls back, pressing gentle kisses along her thighs, smoothing her underwear back into place. If he hadn't ruined her stockings, if her dress wasn't rucked up around her waist, he might never have touched her at all.

"Holy shit," Midge says. She uncurls with an effort, cupping Lenny's chin and tilting him up until she can look at his face.

"Yeah," Lenny replies. The voice is hoarse and breathless; the face is pure smug satisfaction. "It was good for me too."

Midge can't bring herself to mind. "Get this dress off me."

Lenny gets to his feet. He's hard, but he doesn't even try to guide Midge's attention to it, just slides a hand up her spine to find the zipper running down her back. Midge tilts her head forward, guides her hair aside as though it's long enough to interfere. Lenny presses his lips to the knob of bone at the top of her spine, and drags the zip down. Midge shimmies a little, lets the dress fall, steps out of it and turns to face him fully.

Lenny freezes for a moment, eyes raking over the pale lace of her lingerie, lingering on the rents in her stockings. "Is that your everyday look?"

Midge tosses her hair and strikes a pin-up pose. "I picked it out special for my hot date." She takes a step back and sits on the bed, mostly to hide the fact that her legs are still trembling. "Want a closer look?" Lenny steps forward, and Midge raises one leg, pressing her foot against his thigh. "Take off your jacket first."

Lenny arches an eyebrow at her, but obeys, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside. He doesn't move forward. Midge rewards him by moving her foot a little higher, pushing her toes against his hipbone.

"Now your shirt."

"Bossy," Lenny says, but he doesn't seem unhappy about it; quite the opposite, if the speed with which the shirt comes off is any indication. He takes off his undershirt too, and Midge shifts her foot just slightly in and down, tracing her toes carefully over the line of his cock. Lenny's eyes drift closed and his lips part, and Midge presses a little harder.

"I could make you come like this," she says, in the same conversational tone she might use to offer someone tea and cake. "I did say I'd ruin more of your trousers."

Lenny's eyes open. He takes an unsteady breath and says, "Whatever you want."

Midge has to stand up and kiss him for that, grabbing onto his belt and yanking him in. She pulls harder than she intends; they topple to the bed together, joined at the mouth-chest-groin-knees, rubbing against each other like desperate teenagers. Midge gets a hand in Lenny's hair and pulls him back. Lenny doesn't resist; she admires the curve of his neck for a moment, then drags the flat of her tongue over his pulse, up to his ear, nips his earlobe.

"I want you to fuck me," she breathes, and feels his cock twitch against her. "I want you to make me come on your cock. Can you do that for me, baby?"

"Anything," Lenny gasps, still leaning into her grip, "anything, Midge," and she has to kiss him again, deep and filthy, hooking her legs around his hips and grinding against his cock.

She reaches between them and finds his belt, blindly yanking at the buckle until it gives and she can toss it aside. Lenny draws back, kissing a path over her sternum, her breasts, nuzzling and biting as he goes. Midge hisses in frustration as he mouths at her bra; she brings her knee up to her chest and uses her shin to push him back.

Midge sits up, reaching behind herself to undo her bra. Lenny catches on quick; he shifts backwards, shucking his trousers as he goes. Midge tosses her bra aside and goes to work on the rest, unsnapping her garters and wrestling her way out of her girdle. It's not a graceful process, but at the end of it Lenny is there, sliding her panties over her hips and down her legs, and she forgets everything else.

Lenny leans in to kiss her, and she takes his mouth greedily, sighing with pleasure as she tastes herself on his lips. She runs her fingernails over his ribs and he breaks the kiss to huff out a breath.

"Trying to find out if I'm ticklish?"

"Are you?" She digs her fingers into his sides.

Lenny grabs her thighs and drags her down the bed, ignoring her giggles; the laughter dies in Midge's throat as he presses two fingers into her, and she moans instead, hips rocking into his hand. Lenny smirks, adds another finger, and Midge bucks.

"What the hell are you waiting for, Bruce?" she manages, strangled and desperate. "Come on and fuck me."

"I am fucking you," Lenny says. He presses his thumb to her clit, rubbing tight circles as his fingers work inside her. "Didn't you notice?"

Midge writhes, slams her head back against the mattress in frustration. "Lenny - oh, shit - c'mon, Lenny, I've been waiting for your cock for so long—" His fingers find something inside her that makes her arch off the bed with a yowl. "Please, please, I want it, please..."

Lenny's fingers slide out with a soft wet sound and then finally, finally, his cock is pressing into her. Midge whimpers and lets her legs fall open, melting into the bed.

Lenny kisses her again, messy and frantic as he starts to fuck her in earnest, hips snapping into her hard enough to move the bed. Midge wraps her arms around him and lets her fingernails bite into his shoulders. Her legs come up to cradle his hips, urging him on, and Lenny picks up the pace, biting her shoulder, her collarbone. He moves somehow, does something, and Midge all but shrieks as he sends light sparking behind her eyes. 

"Right there, right there, oh—" 

And just like that she's flying apart again, dizzy with it as he fucks her into the mattress, gasping out his name like a prayer. 

When her head stops spinning, Lenny is still, panting against her sternum. She tugs him up for a lingering kiss, combing her fingers through his hair. They stay like that for a while, just kissing, barely scandalous at all if he wasn't still inside her.

Eventually, Lenny pulls back. Midge watches him as he crosses the room to deal with the condom. She closes her eyes for a second to thank God that one of them had enough brains to remember protection, and then she must drift for a moment, because the next thing she knows is that Lenny is back, warm and solid, drawing her into an embrace. 

Midge rolls into his chest and pushes her face against his shoulder, sleepy and sated. "Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

"Sweetheart," Lenny murmurs, lips against her ear, "you've never been anything less." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus, it is complete! thank you for sticking with me and i hope you have enjoyed it <3


End file.
